


This Dream Isn't Feeling Sweet

by Peachykeehn



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachykeehn/pseuds/Peachykeehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t answer the phone the first time it rings.</p>
<p>It’s a Monday morning and there’s a cold void in your shared bed that Laura vacated not long ago. She’s gone to work, despite your best efforts to convince her otherwise, and there is nothing that can convince you that getting up at the crack of 10 A.M. is worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Dream Isn't Feeling Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Add some Laura/Carmilla angst to your day. This is apparently what happens when you listen to Ribs by Lorde for three days straight. I hope you enjoy!

You don’t answer the phone the first time it rings.

It’s a Monday morning and there’s a cold void in your shared bed that Laura vacated not long ago. She’s gone to work, despite your best efforts to convince her otherwise, and there is nothing that can convince you that getting up at the crack of 10 A.M. is worth it. 

But minutes later it rings again. There is a pleasant moment where you consider not answering, just sleep. Yet Laura has instilled in you a sense that maybe taking responsibility is a good thing and repeated calls are cause to answer.

“Ms Karnstein,” they say, and there’s a pit in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” they say, and the hollow in your chest where you’ve long not had a heart is emptier than before.

“There was an accident,” and you’re gone. You’d been trapped in the coffin for 70 years. Somehow it never compares to the last 7 seconds.

One of the redheads stops by a few days later. Danny, maybe, or LaFontaine. They find you in the wreckage of your kitchen, immobile amongst the strewn remains of Laura’s carefully selected dinnerware. You allow yourself to be gently guided to bed and you hear the sounds of shattered dishes being swept up as sleep takes you for the first time since the call.

You dream of her. It’s a recollection of the dorm days, an amalgamation of sly glances and stolen kisses. She’s galavanting off on some investigative venture imagined up by your subconscious. She places a peck on your lips, promising to be back soon. You wake up the instant she’s gone.

Someone has been restocking your fridge with fresh blood every few days. You’re not eating nearly enough, but, without fail, the little you consume is replaced. Frequently it is accompanied by a note of encouragement. A mutter in the back of your brain wonders whether your benefactor is quiet as a mouse or if you’ve lost the ability to notice if anyone is actually there.

You find that Laura’s father has arranged for a service. It’s heartwarming and poignant in all the right places, just like she would have wanted it to be.

Somehow, there’s the front door to your house. The door creaks, as it always does. The stairs groan, no different than what you’ve known before. But something along your path is different. The closet door is open, linens spilled out on the floor. Sticking out, a splash of color amongst the grayscale of the last week, is the yellow pillowcase you convinced Laura to let you keep. 

You pick it up, running the worn fabric between your fingers. A small smile creeps its way onto your face.

You thank her for sending this reminder of the amazing experiences you had.

But, you think, it’s never going to be enough.

You were supposed to have more time.


End file.
